


love me lights out

by deathflare



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aftercare, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anonymous Sex, Blindfolds, Bondage, F/M, Light BDSM, POV Second Person, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Unresolved Romantic Tension, i offer you nothing but garbage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28442580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathflare/pseuds/deathflare
Summary: “You know not what you ask of me,” he mutters, pained,tortured. “If I were to allow myself—if you were toletme—”“Iwantthis,” you say, cutting him off. Tired, frustrated, you move, throwing one leg across his hip and shifting so that you’re straddling him, looking down at his shadowed features and that beautiful,beautifulmouth. “I wantyou.”
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Reader, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 35
Kudos: 169
Collections: Bookclub Winter Fic Exchange 2020, Final Fantasy XIV - Crystal Exarch x WoL Recommendations





	love me lights out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thepapernautilus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/gifts).



> merry belated christmas to my favourite clown! <3 it was a real struggle to write this and _not_ talk to you about it LMAO but writing for you is pretty much writing for myself, so this was a real treat to work on. i hope you like it!

Starlight as you knew it was not a holiday in the First, but the people of the Crystarium certainly did not lack motive to celebrate.

The return of the night, the first snow of the year, the coming of the fabled Warrior of Darkness—all reasons why you currently find yourself sitting by one the tables of the Wandering Stairs, slowly nursing a glass of wine as the people around sing and dance to their heart’s content under the cover of the early evening sky.

You appreciate their enthusiasm, truly. No other city you ever found yourself tasked with saving has ever been this welcoming, this _warm,_ and though you had not missed the night sky for nearly as long as them, their happiness is contagious. There are far too many things in your mind for you to get in the mood to celebrate, however.

“Not enjoying the festivities?”

Speaking of which.

“I’m simply… slightly overwhelmed, if you will.” You look up at the Crystal Exarch, eyes meeting only shadow save for the faint upturn of his lips. “I’ve never been one for big social gatherings.”

He nods in understanding. “None would blame you if you chose to retire for the night.”

“I truly don’t _want_ to leave,” you say. Then, grinning, “But I _could_ use some pleasant conversation.”

You pat the chair next to yours. His lips—those really, _really_ nice lips—part in surprise for a brief moment, but he moves to sit anyhow, demeanor unusually bashful. “I’m afraid you’ll find me sorely lacking in that regard,” he says.

“Nonsense.” You take another sip of your wine, smile impish. “Am I to believe the Exarch’s silver tongue is capable of charming powerful nation leaders and putting his people’s hearts at ease with but a few words, but not of entertaining a humble adventurer with some small talk?”

He chuckles, the sound low and terribly charming. “A flattering exaggeration, but an exaggeration nonetheless,” he says, fingers drumming on the glass of wine in his hand. “Those are… quite different fields of expertise. Idle conversation, as it were, has never been one of my strengths.”

“Well, this is a conversation, and you’re doing fine.”

“Ah.” He raises his glass. “The alcohol helps.”

“I’m sure.” Your eyes fall on the plaza; friends, family and lovers alike dancing to the cheery tune of a song you don’t recognize. “Do you dance, my lord?”

“I... haven’t done so, in a very long time.”

“Would you like to?”

He chokes halfway through a sip, sending himself into a quite graceless coughing fit. You stifle a chuckle into your hand, oddly endeared. “No?”

“Not… _no,_ ” he mutters, averting your eyes. “I’m simply… confused. _You_ certainly could have a choice of anyone in this city as your partner—surely there are more appealing options than a tottering old man?”

“Perhaps. But I want you.” You perch your chin on your hand. “Unless _you_ don’t want me?”

He stares at you for a very long moment, silent and slack-jawed. It’s hard to tell where exactly he’s looking, but as you take another sip of your wine and his head tilts the slightest bit, you could swear you feel those shadowed eyes fall over your lips and down the curve of your throat. He takes a deep breath and brings the glass to his lips one more time, downing the rest of his wine in one gulp and sighing.

“Very well.” He stands up, offering you his hand with a sweet smile. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

Your turn to fluster.

You take his hand, fighting the nonsensical urge to avert the eyes you wouldn’t be able to look into even should you try. He gently leads you to one of the more empty corners of the plaza, away from prying eyes but still within earshot of the now slower but still lively song echoing through the city.

You don’t dance _with_ him as much as you dance _for_ him.

It’s hard to tell if he’s shy or simply not used to dancing, but the Exarch does little more than step side to side, holding your hands and encouraging you to move, spinning you ‘round every so often as he simply watches you sway with a smile so fond it makes your chest feel tight. Not for the first time you feel the urge to reach out and pull his cowl back; see if perhaps his eyes hold the same affection as his smile so often does.

The song changes just as he spins you one last time, and you find yourself stopping with your chest alarmingly close to his. The next melody is yet slower, sultry and somewhat nostalgic. You watch as most of the people move to sit and rest, all of those remaining seeming to be lovers. The Exarch’s grip on your hand grows tense.

“Perhaps we should sit,” he suggests.

“No,” you say hurriedly, bringing his hands down to your waist and then your own to rest on his shoulders. “Dance with me.”

He remains tense and stiff, but follows your lead nonetheless. With him looking down at you with parted lips, a mix of astonishment and endearment on his half-shadowed face, you find yourself turning your gazing downwards.

“If you are uncomfortable, we can—”

“No.” His grip on your waist tightens. “Stay.”

You swallow, the intensity of his gaze heavy even when hidden. Slowly, the two of you sway together, but your heartbeat remains louder in your ears than the wistful music. His hands are big and warm where they rest over your waist, thumbs drawing slow circles over the fabric of your clothes and making you shiver. By the time you fight off the unexpected shyness and turn your gaze upwards once again, you find him already looking at you.

“Warrior,” he breathes, something painfully like _longing_ in his voice. “I—”

A thundering _crash_ interrupts him, and you both turn around to find a frazzled guard scrambling to his feet after having collided with one of the tables, sending a few glasses down to the floor. He stumbles towards Lyna, speaking shakily and hurriedly even as she tries to soothe him. The Exarch releases you then, walking towards the two, and you try to bury the sting of disappointment as you follow closely behind.

“Everything all right, captain?”

Lyna’s eyes widen at the sight of him. “Yes, my lord,” she says, breaking into the traditional Crystarium salute. “Only reports of a stray Sin Eater near Sullen. It appears to be a particularly powerful one, and so we may need to deploy more guards than usual.”

“I’ll go,” you blurt out.

Three pairs of eyes fall on you.

Lyna’s brow furrows. “There is no need for you to leave the festivities for our sake—”

“You all haven’t seen the night sky in near a hundred years. You deserve a day in which you need not worry about those creatures.” You hold up a hand when they begin to protest. “I’ll be fine.”

Lyna remains unconvinced. “While I do not doubt your abilities, even for someone of your skill, going alone is—”

“She won’t be alone,” the Exarch interjects, a hand firmly placed over your shoulder. “You may leave this matter to the both of us, Captain. Pray enjoy your rest. You’ve more than earned it.”

* * *

“There was no need to abandon the festivities for my sake, Exarch. I can take care of myself.”

You drag your feet through the snow, arms wrapped around yourself in a feeble attempt to shield your body from the scathing wind. The Exarch walks a few steps ahead of you, staff replaced with the familiar aetherial sword and shield he had wielded during your foray into Holminster Switch.

“There is no doubt in my mind that you can,” he says, seemingly unbothered by the cold. “Even so, you are a guest. It wouldn’t be right to have _you_ forfeit your rest to take care of our matters. And I simply…”

“Simply?”

“I simply do not wish to see you come to harm. If there’s aught I can do to prevent it, then it shall always be my pleasure to do so.”

It comes again—that tenderness, that _care_. Your cheeks burn but your stomach sinks with uncertainty. Is it genuine? If so, then _why?_

And how far does that affection go?

“That is very kind of you,” you say for lack of better words.

He turns to you, the usual gentle smile on his face. “I concede, my motives are not entirely selfless. Any opportunity to fight by your side is a priceless gift to me.”

You stop walking. After a moment, he stops as well, looking back at you in confusion. You clench your fists, fighting the urge to look away.

“You—”

You barely get the word out before he glances at something behind your back, and then you find yourself being thrown down into the snow as he runs past you.

You only realize what’s happening when the shrill sound of the Sin Eater’s claws colliding with his shield hits your ears.

You scramble for your staff, the impact having made it land a few fulms away from you. Bringing yourself to your feet again, you focus, channeling the aether around you with practiced ease.

The creature’s body explodes in hellfire.

The earsplitting wail it lets out is quickly silenced by the edge of the Exarch’s blade, a clean cut from navel to collarbone. It falls to the ground, shattering into a myriad sparkles of light.

The Exarch doesn’t watch it. Instead, he turns to you, frantic, hands gripping your shoulders. You don’t need to look into his eyes to know they hold only the most genuine concern.

“Are you unharmed?”

A weak nod.

“Yes,” you breathe, heartbeat in your ears. “Thanks to you.”

A sigh of relief, his grip on you slackening. You see his lips part, but whatever he sees in your face has him closing his mouth shut once again. His hands leave your shoulders and he turns away.

“We should head back,” he says, and does not look at you again.

* * *

Heading back, as it turns out, is a much harsher task than eliminating the Sin Eater ever was.

What started as snowfall has quickly become a snowstorm, and walking becomes a challenge when you can hardly see what lies in front of you. You pull yourself ahead as best you can, but you’re unsure if you’re even heading in the right direction as you walk, the sharp sting of the cold wind against your face making you wince.

A strong arm around your waist startles you. “Follow me,” the Exarch says, and you let yourself be guided through the blizzard until you eventually find yourselves in front of a wooden door. He urges you in, and though you’re still cold, even simply being free from the bite of the snowstorm is an immediate relief.

You blink, taking in your surroundings. “Where are we?”

“This is hardly the first time one of ours finds themselves unable to return to the city due to harsh weather, or a myriad other reasons,” the Exarch replies, lighting the lamps around the cottage with a snap of his fingers. “We had a handful of these shelters built all around Lakeland for such situations. Are you alright?”

“Cold, but otherwise fine.”

He nods. “You should rid yourself of those clothes,” he says, then immediately catches himself, spluttering. “I mean, of your… coat. And the other—things.” He sighs, turning away from you. “I’ll... start a fire.”

You heroically do not laugh as he scoots away, head tucked in embarrassment. Taking off your snow covered coat is a welcome relief, and you strip down to just the simple tunic and leggings you had been wearing earlier.

The Exarch, having rid himself of his own coat, sits on the carpet near the fireplace, back against the somewhat tattered sofa. Despite the snow outside, the cottage is surprisingly warm—you imagine some manner of spell has been cast on its walls. You, however, are still very much cold, and as you approach to sit down beside him, both the need for warmth and the longing for _his_ warmth specifically drive you to lean against him.

Unsurprisingly, he stiffens at the contact.

“No?” you ask, cautiously.

He doesn’t move. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You’re not. Am I making _you_ uncomfortable?”

“No,” he breathes. “No, you are not.”

A few long minutes pass. You watch the fire crackle, hear the wind still howling outside, feel the warmth of his body beside you.

“Exarch?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you again. For earlier.”

“You needn’t thank me.”

But you _do_ , don’t you?

“‘Tis not often that anyone throws themselves into danger like that for my sake,” you confess. “It is usually… quite the opposite, in fact.” A pause, hesitant. “Can I ask why?”

You feel his head tilt. “Why?”

“Why you put yourself in harm’s way for my sake so readily.”

His reply is quick and expected. “I do not wish to see you hurt,” he says.

“But _why?”_

A long beat of silence. Then, so quiet you wonder if maybe it wasn’t for your ears at all:

“Because you are dear to me.”

Your heart throbs and aches.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur, hurt, confused. “I don’t understand how you can say such things so readily, yet still refuse to show me your face or tell me your name.”

The howl of the wind outside feels deafening against the silence between the two of you. You count one, two, three, four heartbeats of your own before he speaks again, quiet and pained.

“There are things I cannot afford to put at stake. But know that, no matter what, my affections are true.”

 _How far does it go_ , whispers the voice in your mind yet again.

“Affections,” you echo, fingers reaching out to trace the intricate patterns of the wrappings around his arm. “What about desire, then?”

He swallows. “My friend—”

“Do you _want_ me, Exarch?”

Despite your insistence, you keep your gaze fixed ahead, head leaning into his shoulder. The fear of death, the fear of facing gods alone in the battlefield, you had grown to be immune to.

The fear of rejection, however.

His whisper is low and wistful, lips brushing against your hair.

“How could I not?”

Ah.

Your grip on his arm tenses. You turn your head, just enough for your lips to graze his cheek. Even this close you cannot see what lies beneath the shadow of his cowl, undoubtedly hidden by some manner of spell or glamour. If only it were so simple, to reach up and pull it off, to lay him bare before your eyes. What color would _his_ eyes be, you wonder? Do they bear the weight of his years, or perhaps hold the jovial glint one would expect of someone with such young countenance?

So many questions yet answered.

Your hand comes up, over the length of his arm, up his clothed chest, and you feel the way he shivers under your touch, brief and light as it is. There’s a sharp intake of breath from him, and then his hand wraps around your wrist.

“Don’t,” he whispers. A warning.

You do not take it.

“Why?” you ask instead, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you find me repulsive?”

“Do I— _no,_ ” he replies, sounding almost insulted you would deign to _think_ such a thing. “You are… lovely. Unspeakably so”.

“Then why must you push me away? If we both wish for this, then why—”

“You know not what you ask of me,” he mutters, pained, _tortured_. “If I were to allow myself—if you were to _let_ me—”

“I _want_ this,” you say, cutting him off. Tired, frustrated, you move, throwing one leg across his hip and shifting so that you’re straddling him, looking down at his shadowed features and that beautiful, _beautiful_ mouth. “I want _you_.”

“Warrior,” he whispers, tone dripping with both reverence and disbelief.

You lean down and down, the fabric of his robes crumpled between your clenched fists where they rest over his chest. “Tell me to stop,” you say, so close you feel your breaths mingle, the way his own is quiet yet uneven, tense with the effort of restraining himself. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

For a few long moments, the only sound in the room is that of your breathing and the crackling of the fire behind your back. You wait for what feels like an eternity for him to say something, push you away, _anything_...

… but it doesn’t come.

Instead, you give in. Leaning down those last couple ilms to close the distance between the two of you, you slant your lips over his; a slow, gentle, barely-there touch, yet still it sets your skin aflame, turns everything between your ears to static.

His mouth is as lovely as you had imagined, soft and warm under your own. He stills as if frozen once your lips first touch, and the way he doesn’t reciprocate at first makes disappointment bubble low in your stomach. But then— _then_ you shift the slightest bit, turn your head just so and take his plump bottom lip between your own, and you can almost _hear_ something within him snap.

It’s a shift in atmosphere like the air after levinstrike—his spoken hand moves to thread through your hair, the other pressed against the small of your back, and he all but _crushes_ your body against his. You can’t contain the small gasp of surprise that escapes your mouth, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue between your lips, licking and tasting you with a single-minded desperation that makes your head spin.

“You haven’t the _faintest_ idea,” he mumbles through the brief moments you break apart, “of just how long I have imagined you like this—how long I have _craved_ your touch—”

His hand at your back slips beneath your tunic, and the coolness of crystal against warm skin makes you shiver. When he next captures your lips you cannot help the moan that slips between them, and the way he _shudders_ against you makes warmth pool low in your stomach, the hand delved in your hair clenching.

“Exarch,” you whisper, hands fumbling uselessly with his robes. “Let me—I swear I won’t look, but please let me—“

He curses under his breath, the warmth of it against your lips—of the composure of this restrained, honorable man giving way to his baser desires—positively _intoxicating_.

His hands move away from your body, the way the loss of his touch makes you want to _whine_ terribly embarrassing, yet soothed when you see him tinker with his robes, whatever complex trick there is to parting them made easy under his practiced fingers. It splits apart to reveal the broad planes of chest, glittering lines of crystal spreading through his skin like a web. Your eyes widen—you run curious fingers over the golden veins, memorizing them with your fingertips, and his hands fall on your hips, gripping tightly.

“If you continue to do— _that,_ ” he hisses, “I won’t be able to—”

“Be able to what?”

“To hold myself _back_.”

“I don’t want you to,” you murmur, lips trailing down his neck. “Keep your cloak and your secrets if it so pleases you. What I want from you doesn’t require you relinquish your anonymity.”

“And what is it you want from me, Warrior of Darkness?”

You swallow. A myriad answers come to your mind, some contradicting what you had just said. You _do_ want him bare, want to look into his eyes as you lose yourselves in one another, to see the emotion swimming in them as he touches you, be it with the underlying affection that is always present in the way he handles you or with the roughness of a man lost in the deepest throes of pleasure.

You want his love, you realize; raw and naked and honest.

Yet you know he will not— _cannot_ , perhaps, if you are to believe him—give you that.

But there is something he _can_ give you.

“Take me,” you purr. “On the bed or right here, on the floor. With your cloak on or with my eyes blindfolded. I care not. Just take me—in all the ways you’ve imagined and craved. I will not stop you.”

“Warrior,” he grates, “you cannot mean—”

You throw hesitance and bashfulness away, leaning down until your lips are barely an ilm away from his own.

“Let me make myself clear, then,” you whisper. “I want you to fuck me, Exarch. I want you to fuck me _senseless_ —to fuck me until I forget my own name.” You place a sweet, chaste kiss on his lips, a stark contrast to the string of profanity you uttered mere moments ago. “Is that clear enough?”

Even through your clothes you feel the press of his nails into the skin of your hips. “You know not who I am. Not my face nor name. And still— _still_ you would ask me this?”

“I would,” you say. “I am. _Please_.”

You feel it—the last of his chains, unshackled. 

“I am ever at your service.”

You find yourself pinned to the floor in a split second, eyes still open when he slants his lips over yours and kisses you breathless. His hand threads through your hair and pulls your head back as his lips trail down the sensitive skin of your neck, ripping a moan out of the back of your throat. He _groans_ at the sound, hands lowering to the back of your thighs and hitching you up into his lap.

“Oh,” you breathe when he stands, holding you with ease. “Not on the floor, then?”

The hunger in his eyes is palpable even if it is unseen.

“There certainly is an _appeal to_ taking you on the floor.” You loop your arms around his shoulders as he carries you to another room. “However, if I am to have you in the ways I’ve craved, then this is the more suitable place.” A smile, devious and bewitching, into the crook of your neck. “For now, at least.”

Your back hits the surface of a soft mattress covered in silken sheets, the soft gasp of surprise you let out stifled by his mouth on yours once again.

“You offered me the option of blindfolding you, which I shall gladly take. However,” his crystalline hand comes up your arms, stopping only once he has both your wrists in his grip, firmly held above your head. “I would need your wrists bound as well. Is that…?”

“Yes,” you breathe, almost embarrassed at how eager you sound. “Anything, as long as it’s you.”

His breath hitches. “Have mercy on my heart, Warrior,” he murmurs, head lowering to rest against your chest. “Such words are wont to undo me.”

The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest feel tight. He gathers himself quickly, untying his sash and quietly waiting for your nod of permission before wrapping it around your eyes. For an improvised blindfold, it is quite efficient—you truly couldn’t see anything even if you tried. Soon after you hear _tearing,_ and then he’s pinning your wrists above your head, tying them together with a soft, long strip of fabric.

You give an experimental tug against your bindings. Despite the softness of the material, the knots are _tight_ , and there’s hardly any give as you squirm. Perhaps if you were to try hard enough you could tear them, but it would take enough time that he would be able to pin your wrists down with his own hands once again. This is not simply bawdy loveplay, you realize—he has every intention to truly keep you bound. It is equal parts frustrating and _exciting._

“Should you wish to stop at any moment, you need merely say the word,” he murmurs softly, gently thumbing the skin right below your blindfold. “As much as you make me lose myself, I would not want you in any way you do not want me in turn.”

You nod numbly, the motion barely finished before he’s pressing your body into the mattress and kissing you with a fury. It’s different, even from the first time he had returned your own kisses mere minutes ago; a relentless _hunger_ to the way he dips his tongue into your mouth, catches your lips between his teeth. Bound as you are, there’s little you can do but try to reciprocate with the same fervor, helpless and pliant under him, prey before a predator.

You don’t think any soul would be able to find a more willing prey in all fourteen shards.

“Would that I were a poet, to be able to put your beauty into words,” he whispers into your skin, lips a blazing fire over the column of your throat. “Alas, I am afraid my actions will have to suffice.”

“Your— _oh._ ”

He rakes his hand along your sides, lifting your tunic above your chest and immediately leaning down to litter a thousand kisses over your breasts, cupping them into his hands. His fingers move so gently, impossibly careful and reverent, tender brushes that send startling shocks of sensitivity through your crotch and make breathy moans spill from your lips unbidden. You arch helplessly, wrists tugging uselessly against your bindings, desperate to thread your hands through the soft hair you feel tickling your skin. His kisses grow rougher even as he whispers sweet nothings into your skin in between them, and you’re certain you’ll sport many a lovebite to remember him by once he’s done with you.

“I’ve wondered,” he purrs as he trails kisses down your stomach, “what you _taste_ like.” Strong hands over your thighs, spreading them apart to make room for him. “Spilled over the tower’s floor at the mere fantasy of _knowing.._. I worry I might be ruined once I truly savor it.” An open, wet kiss to your core over your pantalettes, a moan escaping your lips. “But savor it I shall.”

The words leave you as lightheaded as his touch, the easy admission that he had touched himself with thoughts of _tasting_ you in his mind making heat pool heavily between your thighs. There is little time to dwell in them, however, with the way he yanks your garments down your legs and pulls your thighs over his shoulders, the dull thud of his knees hitting the floor the last sound you hear before your own sharp cry once he buries his nose and mouth into your bare cunt and groans, tongue flicking greedily.

“Oh _gods_ ,” you whimper as he all but _ravishes_ you, moans against your core like _he_ is the one drawing pleasure from this. “Exarch—”

Your hands find no purchase, unable to cling to the bedsheets with the way your wrists are bound, or to cover your mouth to disguise the cries he draws out of you with every relentless brush of his tongue. You squirm underneath him, the onslaught of pleasure making your body move on its own, and a lean, strong arm comes over your hips and pins them firmly down to the bed, leaving you with no option other than to take what he gives you.

“I can’t,” you say, surprising even yourself with how _fast_ he brings you to the edge, “Exarch, I’m—going to—”

“Let go,” he whispers, the brief moment his lips leave you purest torture. “Grant me the honor of your undoing.”

He comes back with two long fingers speared deep inside you, lips wrapping around the pearl at the apex of your legs and sucking _hard_. The cry that’s ripped out of your throat is close to a scream, thighs clenching around his head in a way that you’re sure must be painful, but he only moans, the vibrations sending delightful pulses of pleasure over your whole body.

Your climax washes over you like waves; crashing and abrupt, then slow and swaying. The first long jolt of pleasure leaves your mind blissfully blank, white flashing behind your eyelids as your toes curl and your back arches so far off the bed you fear you might break. The Exarch draws the aftershocks out of you with careful, skilled tongue, and you realize with a flush that he’s _licking you clean_ as you come down from your peak.

“E—Enough,” you whimper when the oversensitivity becomes too much. “I can’t—”

He pulls aways immediately, instead pressing gentle kisses to your inner thighs. A graze of teeth makes you gasp, and though his teasing bites and kisses are not enough to bruise, you find yourself wishing he _would_ mark you there—in places everyone could see, look and know what _he_ had done to you.

He stops then, crawling up your body to slant his lips over yours. You feel your own musky taste on his tongue, remains of your pleasure still spread over his chin and cheeks. It’s _obscene_ , your face heating up with embarrassment, but he only kisses you deeper, as if determined to make you taste yourself in him. You’re heaving by the time he pulls off of you, feeling utterly and blissfully wrecked, a boneless heap on silken sheets.

“I expected as much,” he says reverently, crystalline fingers softly tracing your cheek, “yet I find myself at a loss for words to describe just how much my fantasies pale in face of the reality of you.”

You turn your head, pressing a clumsy, brief kiss to his palm, the sigh he lets out as you do filled with painful yearning. “What else did you imagine?”

“Far too many things,” he replies, dazed. “Even if we were to attempt such a feat, I’m afraid we could not fulfill all of them in one night.”

“Did you ever,” you mutter, the haze of the afterglow unshackling your tongue, “picture me—on my knees?”

Close as you are, you feel as much as you hear the sharp intake of breath from him, his body tensing above your own.

“Warrior,” he whispers, low and heady and _feral_ , “you are—”

“Asking you,” you interrupt, “to _use_ me.” Your tongue brushes over your lips, and you _feel_ the way his eyes follow it. “I would know your taste as well.”

“You are a devil,” he growls, “come to ruin me beyond redemption.”

“Then I suppose you have no alternative other than to ruin me first.”

He does. With a rough yank you’re pulled forward and down, your positions switched so that he is in the bed while you kneel on the floor, bound wrists resting in between your legs. Your tunic comes down with the motion, covering your chest and your backside, but you remain bare and embarrassingly wet underneath it. The position you find yourself in and what you know is about to happen serves only to make you feel another rush of heat between your thighs, head tilting back and lips parting as you wait for him to grant your request. His voice, sultry and deep, is rough with desire when he next speaks.

“What a sight you make, Eikon Slayer.” A hand comes below your chin, crystallized thumb brushing over your lips, unexpectedly gentle. It dips inside your mouth and presses down on your tongue, making your lips part further. “Wicked white…”

His spoken hand threads through your hair. You feel the heat of him, so close to you—

“Please,” you whisper, tongue swirling around his thumb. “Exarch…”

With a curse under his breath, his crystalline hand leaves your face. The one in your hair clenches, fisting your silken locks, and you feel yourself be pulled forward…

… and his cock slide past your waiting lips.

Blindfolded as you are, you could not have seen the non-insignificant size of what awaited you. But even as your jaw aches when you take him into your mouth fully, what surprises you most is the delightful sound that spills from his lips as you do—your name whispered with purest reverence, then dissolved into a low, deep moan, unrestrained bliss unlike anything you have heard from him.

“By the gods,” he groans, “Oh, Warrior—you feel—”

He pulls your head back, mouth coming off him with an obscene, wet _pop_. “Feel…?”

“ _Divine,_ ” he hisses, and then you’re being shoved back down.

He does exactly as you had asked, fucking your mouth as he mindlessly chases his own pleasure. You taste silken skin and salt as he pulls your head back and forth, quiet profanities and moans of your name spilling from his lips. You find yourself moaning in turn, something about being so utterly _used_ by this man, bound and blindfolded and on your knees as he’s rendered to an incoherent mess of groans and growls by your mouth alone filling your veins with smouldering fire.

He pulls you off him far too soon, the hand in your hair trembling. You try fruitlessly to bring yourself forward again, tongue resting wantonly against your lower lip. The Exarch curses under his breath, fisting your locks so strongly it sends a sharp jolt of pain through your body, yet all that leaves your mouth is a moan.

“Wicked white,” he groans. “You are…”

“I thought,” you huff, “you would want to come in my mouth.”

He sighs, shaky and drawn-out, and you wish you could see the hunger in his eyes as he tilts your chin up again, slides a finger past your lips and groans when you suck on it, eager and shameless.

“I would,” he rasps, the gravelly tone of his voice giving you the urge to squeeze your thighs together. “But I recall you asking to be _fucked senseless_ , and I have yet to fulfill your request.”

You yelp as you’re pulled up and thrown into the bed again, lying on your stomach as you feel the Exarch loom over you, hands slowly running up the back of your bare thighs, lifting your tunic to leave your backside on display. He leans down to press his lips to the back of your neck; a gentle kiss followed by a bite, the sting of it soothed by his tongue.

“Forgive me the indulgence. I would like you to have something to remember this night by.”

“Make sure I can’t forget, then.” You cant your hips up as best you can in your position, feel the curve of him against you and shudder. “Undo me, until all I _can_ remember is you.”

His fingers dig into your asscheeks, and for a long moment all you hear is his laboured breath, hot against the back of your neck.

“As you wish, O’Warrior of Darkness.”

In one swift motion he brings you to your knees, cheek against the bed and wrists tied overhead as your backside hangs in the air, exposed and his for the taking. You shift the slightest bit, reaching forward blindly to cling to one of the headboard spindles, waiting.

“Lovely,” he whispers from behind you, and you whimper when you feel his cock brush against your cunt, slicking himself with you. “I had always thought I belonged on my knees, worshipping you the way you deserve to be. Well, that hasn’t changed.” You feel the blunt head of his cock against your slit. “But this— _this_ is a good look on you, hero.”

He slides in, and you see white.

You had thought taking him into your mouth a tough task, yet it pales in comparison to _this._ He enters you carefully and torturously slow, stretching you ilm by ilm, spoken hand gripping your hips as he pushes deeper and deeper and _deeper_ —

“Exarch—”

It takes you a long moment to realize the long, sharp cry you hear is coming out of your own mouth.

“ _Gods,_ ” he groans when he bottoms out, sheathed to the hilt inside you. “You feel like _nothing else._ ”

“M—Move,” you whimper, clenching around his girth. “By the Twelve, _please_ move.”

He chuckles, low and dark. And then— _then_ he begins to thrust.

Your mouth hangs open, embarrassingly ready to beg should he choose to tease you any further, but both the need and the capability to do so escape you. It’s clear in moments that the Exarch has every intention to fulfill his promise—unhindered cries spill out of your lips as you lose yourself to him, nothing in your mind but the toe-curling push and pull of his cock, the wonderful tingling _fullness_ as he pistons his hips into you again and again and again—

“That’s it, love,” he purrs, breath erratic. “Such a good girl.”

There is a delicious thrill that comes from being taken from behind by a man whose face or name you do not know.

You attempt to turn your head and bury your face in the pillow to muffle your cries, but his crystalline hand slides up your back and delves into your hair, tilting your head back. His spoken hand grips your waist with enough strength to bruise, and when he pulls your hips back into him even as he thrusts forward you feel him somehow go _deeper—_

“Such lovely sounds,” he whispers, “should not be hidden.”

Being used had never felt so _good_.

The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the cabin alongside your mewls and his laboured breathing, and you’re left with no choice but to listen to the obscene symphony of your tryst. You wonder how you look, bent over and helpless, clutching the headboard’s wooden spindle desperately as he takes you over and over and over, steadily and gorgeously smooth, the single-minded focus he applies to every task now entirely centered on _ruining_ you.

“What would they think, I wonder?” A sharp snap of his hips with each word, then a slow, torturous drawl as he bends and presses his lips to your neck; the briefest flash of teeth, a taunt. “Your Scions, your countless admirers… what would they think if they could see you now, coming undone—being held down and _fucked_ by a man whose identity you don’t know?”

Your entire body flushes. “Exarch—”

His hand leaves your hair to instead clutch your bindings, keeping you firmly in place even as his thrusts grow faster and harsher. The position keeps you from sliding forward, and the difference is overwhelming and immediate.

This time he makes you scream.

You feel nothing but _him_ , his scent, his sweat dripping on your back, his ragged breath on the back of your neck. Your vision pulses white, insides desperately tightening around his shaft. It’s good, _so_ good, so much more intense like this—

“What wouldn’t I give to have you like this, every day and every night. To be the only one to bring you to peak after peak, time and time again…”

His hips begin to stutter, a delirious flood of praise and profanity bursting from that sweet mouth as he loses himself in you. You can feel he’s close, his grunts growing louder by the second, thrusts desperate and erratic—

“Exarch, _please—_ ”

“Should I finish inside you?” he asks even as you squirm, uselessly trying to buck your hips against him as his thrusts slow down. “Fill you with my seed, claim you as mine? Would you want that, love?”

Gods, it’s almost embarrassing just how much you _do_ want that.

“Yes,” you whimper, the molten coil in your gut desperately close to snapping. “I do, please, _please_.”

“ _Yes,_ ” he growls, resuming his punishing pace. “Come for me.”

Your world shatters.

Stars burst behind your eyelids, your whole body wracked with a wave of liquid pleasure as your climax overtakes you. It leaves you coiled and tightly wound, blind and deaf to the world as your mind goes blank with purest bliss, then loose and pliant, all but melting into the bed. Your throat _hurts_ , and you realize belatedly that you had been screaming.

 _I truly am ruined_ , you think to yourself, mind hazy in the afterglow. _Nothing else will compare to this._

Jolts of oversensitivity shoot up your spine and make you whimper into the pillow as the Exarch fucks you through your orgasm, pace losing its rhythm. You feel him shudder, above you and _inside_ you, delirious whispers of your name falling from his lips until he slams into you one last time, the warmth of him as he spills inside you with a low, desperate groan making you shiver.

There’s a long moment in which the only sound in the room is that of your erratic breathing.

“Heavens above,” he mutters dazedly, and the sheer disbelief in his voice startles a chuckle out of you. It quickly dissolves into a moan once he begins pulling out, the slow drag of it setting your oversensitive nerves aflame.

He presses a soft, impossibly gentle kiss to your back and it ruins you more than anything before.

“I’ll be back.”

He leaves you then, the lack of warmth making you feel uncomfortably exposed. Still bound, you’re unable to use your hands to catch the mess that begins dripping between your legs, but even if you _weren’t_ , you doubt you’d be able to move with the way every bone in your body feels like jelly. And, well.

Maybe you didn’t _want_ to.

You startle when you feel the touch of something soft and damp on your skin—a washcloth, you realize, the bed dipping where the Exarch sits beside you, gently cleaning between your legs, littering your skin with soft kisses and gentle caresses as he does.

“My apologies.” His fingers trace the curve of your waist, the skin undoubtedly having bruised under his grip. “I had not intended to be quite so… rough.”

The languidness in your bones keeps you still even as he reaches up to untruss your arms. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t want, Exarch.”

He sighs. “Even so, I seem to have very little control over myself when it comes to you.” Bindings undone, crystalline and spoken hands massaging your sore wrists. “It is a failing I can’t seem to repair.”

You hear the fumble of clothes. Still blindfolded, you reach blindly for him, catching his wrist.

“Wait.” You lick your lips, uncertain. “Will you—I swear I won’t touch anywhere you don’t want me to. I’ll keep the blindfold on as well.” A deep breath. “But will you—hold me? Just… for a little while.”

A long beat of silence. You wait, a swirl of anxiety low on your stomach. Did his desire find its limit at the carnal? Would he turn you away when you asked for simply affection?

You’re close to recanting your request when you feel his lips on yours.

This time he kisses you slowly, thoroughly, _lovingly_. There’s no lust behind the action, only the affection of a man who, beneath all mystery and falsehoods, truly and undeniably loves you.

You find yourself fearing that love as much as you crave it.

He rests his forehead against yours when you part, erratic breaths mingling as he speaks.

“Of course,” he whispers. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

He crawls into bed with you then, bundling you up in his arms and pulling the covers over both of your bodies. The Exarch is not much taller than you, yet here and now, with his arms around your waist and his hand spanning your back, gently folding you into his chest, you feel very, very small. _Safe_ , even with the shadow of the blindfold still over your eyes.

You can’t remember the last time anyone’s made you feel like this.

Long minutes pass with you simply melting into his embrace, boneless and sated and terribly vulnerable. True to your word, you keep your hands firmly below his neck, even as you ache to reach up and feel the planes and curves of his face, to try to figure out _who_ this man of inscrutable shadow and boundless affection is.

Fingers mapping the crystal on his chest, you allow yourself the one question running through your mind.

“Will you ever let me know?”

You feel his breath catch under your palm. One, two, three rapid beats of his heart under your palm before his voice, hesitant and vulnerable, graces your ears again.

“I... have reason to keep my counsel.” A pause. Pondering. “But, perhaps... perhaps once the final Lightwarden is slain. Perhaps then we might—talk. About me. About us. About what this means.”

Such a vague promise shouldn’t make you as happy as it does, and yet.

“I would like that,” you say. “I would like that very much.”

The cool touch of crystal to your cheek, gentle. “As would I.”

There is a deep, quiet pain in his voice that you can’t decipher. Yet even as concern creeps through the edges of your mind, here, in his arms, sleep comes easily.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i would love it if you let me know your thoughts. 💛   
> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/deathflares) and [tumblr](https://verthunder.tumblr.com/).


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